The Tale of the Free Peoples
by Skyrvr
Summary: My first attempt at a LOTR fanfiction. This is mainly based on the atmosphere of the Lord of the Rings Online, one of my all time favorite MMORPGs. Please tell me what you think of it! Gariath, Sappira, Nemo, Agravar, and Haldamphir all clash againstevil.
1. The Guardian of Ost Guruth

"Why won't you die?" Gariath spat harshly at the decaying, bile-spewing Wight. He lifted his heavy shied to avoid being sprayed by a mixture of bile and blood that the undead creature vomited at him. The shield had been a splendid gift given to him by the Skirmish Trainers near Ost Guruth, he noted. This Wight was definitely making a mess of things.

Lifting his axe, Gariath's sturdy arm slammed down and the head of his weapon sank several inches into the Wight's right shoulder. Peering from behind the heavy shied nearly as large as he was, Gariath saw the Wight's eyes glimmer. For a split second, Gariath had supposed that he had rid the world of the evil thing. But he was wrong. With an earsplitting scream, the Wight reeled backwards, retreating from the Guardsman's sharp stinger. It eyed him cruelly with a type of wild ambition that only the Valar and Illuvitar himself could distinguish. The beast lurched at him, foaming at the mouth and claws extended. Gariath braced himself and shrank back, raising his shield to protect him.

It wasn't that Gariath was not able to defeat the Wight. The Guardian had been ridding Haragmar of Wights for far over what was expected. The toll of his kills had wound up in the triple digits, and the Man was tired from so much death.

Swiftly muttering the Guardian's Pledge in the Common Tongue, he once again felt a surge of strength flow through his veins. He cursed at the Wight as he executed a roll, but not completely evading the zombie's right talon. Diseased sharpness tore into Gariath's flesh, leaving an infection almost instantly. Gariath growled. He couldn't end like this. His morale was low, and his power was faltering and leaving him. He rebuked himself for working himself so hard like this, and now having to come to a cease from his reign. He hastily and sloppily swung his ax, feebly trying unsuccessfully to slaughter his undead combatant. It sank into the Wight's hip, but the pain-wrenched creature ignored the swing. Gariath tore the ax out, and rose for a second strike; one that he knew would not hit and that the Wight would surely reach him before his arms fell.

But, before the Wight could strike, or his ax could fall, a string of three arrows, faster than even the eyes of Elves could spot, struck the Wight critically with all three shots. The Wight recoiled in shock and Gariath even more so. Gariath lowered his ax and stared with a mixture of confusion and thankfulness at the now-dying Wight. A small, dwarfed woman with bow in hand and a quiver on her back full of barbed arrows, gracefully pulled back the string of her bow and let loose a hell of bullets, each striking the Wight. It reeled and let out a glass breaking scream before it crumpled into a ball onto the dead soil floor of Haragmar. A questionably large crawler emerged from the inside of the Wight. Gariath had seen this many times. With his ax, using perhaps the last ounces of his strength, slammed his axe down, splitting the insect in two. The small girl bounded closer and inspected the Wight with seeable experience, and then she turned up to Gariath.

"How long?" she asked him in a clear voice, peering up at him, kneeling to look at the remnant.

"Since this morning," he rasped coarsely, feeling drenched with sweat and stuffy in his large, ceremonial armor of Barrow-Warriors. He couldn't help but feel a familiar knowing of the girl. When he tried to take a closer look, his legs gave away, and his eyes tolled into the back of his head. He blacked out from fatigue, crashing onto the ground with an audible clanging of metal as his armor chaffed against his skin.

He awoke to find himself on his back at the foot of Radagast the Brown's wizard tower in Ost Guruth. He found the Healer, Hana, peering over him. He was sprawled out and his armor had been carefully placed against the circular wall that loomed around them.

"Again, Gariath?" she asked expectantly.

"Ugh," he groaned, trying unsuccessfully to rise to a sitting position. A wave of agony swept over his back and shoulders. He coughed unhealthily and sank back to his back. "What do you mean again?" he rasped at her. Hana always had a tendency to hold grudges, and to aggravate people until she was over it, or unless she forgot.

"I recall a familiar situation, very much like this one. A little more fatal, perhaps, if you remember."

Gariath did remember. A few years back, a very similar situation had happened. Except it had been in the Red Pass, and over a dozen of Dreadwaters had overwhelmed him and, even switching to his lethal two-handed sword, could not overcome them. Even constantly summoning the Guardian's Ward, he could not defeat the enemies. He had fallen, when Radagast and Frideric the Elder had rushed. According to them, a mad surge of the Eye from Isengard had made all of the creatures in the Lone-lands more dangerous.

"Right, Hana," Gariath wheezed. "There was a girl, a very familiar-looking girl, too. Where'd she go?"

"Imagining things, Gariath?" Hana sighed, she took a case of assorted ointments with celebrant salves; she took several out and began to soak Gariath's side with the eerie green oil. Gariath was injured enough to understand the importance of the stinging medicine. He didn't argue.

The word came to his mind like a distant echo that had just reached his ears. "Sappira," he said softly. He chuckled.

"Excuse me?" Hana said absently.

"Nothing." He said quickly.

Several years ago, during his whereabouts and being in the Shire, adding to his knowledge of Hobbit-lore, he discovered a young girl Hobbit, resolving the issue of farm-raiding from local animals by attacking a den filled with wolves. Gariath helped her with the task and they became quick friends. He trained her as well as he could, only having a little proficiency with the crossbow, and led her to Ered Luin and into Kheledul, to assassinate several Dwarf Dourhands for good sport. Gariath never saw her again. Yet there she was, helping him as he had helped her.

"Is Refr about?" Gariath asked, not trying to conceal his smile.

"He's at the forge, of course," Hana replied, "but whatever do you need him for?"

"I need a new sword," he said with a smirk, "something critically proficient for a Hunter. Can you send someone to fetch him?"

"Whatever you say, Gar. Your actions are your own – Slade!" she shouted coarsely, letting a few strands of her hair fall from the bun on the back of her head. A young man emerged into the circular wall.

"Hana, Gariath," Slade bowed, glancing at both of them. He exchanged a glance with Gariath, almost a demand for an explanation for the inexplicable damage tolled on his body. Gariath rolled his eyes.

"Go fetch the blacksmith," Hana barked at him.

"Refr?"

"Is there any other?"

"At once, Hana."

Hana spent the next few moments applying a few bandages around Gariath's entire left side and shoulder. Gariath was then able to rise to his feet with little trouble, but his shoulder and arm still wavered uneasily.

The young man Slade led Refr Quicksilver, garmented in weaponcrafting attire and a blacksmith's apron, into the foot of Radagast's tower, the grassy plain below.

"Gariath!" Refr's gruff voice exclaimed. "What'cha been doin' to yerself? Jus' look at ye! Wrapped up like a bug in a web, you are. What'd happene'd to ye?"

"It'd be best you didn't know," Gariath murmured, exchanging a secretive glance with Hana. Knowing Refr, the old blacksmith would lose his temper and flip out if he learned that Gariath had broken several ribs and had gotten a flattened lung by landing on his armor awkwardly.

"Well, yer not tellin' meh that ye call'd Slade here to ge' me outta meh forge for nothin', are yeh?"

"How about we get somewhere more private?" suggested Gariath, eyeing his heavy armor and shield lying behind Hana. "I've got a favor to ask. And Slade, could you get my armor? I was going to go hang out around the Workbench, I have some plans I need to carry out."

Slade reluctantly threw a hasty look at the large, ceremonial armor lying elegantly in the corner. He sighed and walked over to try and pick up the breastplate. He struggled and wheezed, the breastplate slung down onto the ground. He spun around and shot a look at Gariath. "How do you _wear _this stuff, Gar?"

"You get used to it. Can you handle it or should we get someone else? Tortwil and Stanrac, maybe?"

"Why not?" he walked over to the doorway and stuck his head out. "Tortwil! Stanrac! Get your hides over here! We need some help!"

Two more men walked to the foot of Radagast's tower, looking almost identical. From a glance, one could suppose that they were brothers. But they weren't, just an unlikely sort of a friends. "What's the matter?" Tortwil asked Slade.

"The armor," said Slade, jerking a thumb towards the weighty formed metal, "Gariath can't wear it so he needs someone to carry it."

"Not a problem, not a problem at all, my friend," Stanrac grinned, pushing Tortwil behind him, "this sounds like a good time for negotiating price, eh?"

"Stuff it, Stan," Hana warned with a glare. "The price is nothing. You'll do it for free – that's right, manual labor, Stanrac."

"Yeah? And what if I decline?" Stanrac stuck his tongue out in a childish manner.

Tortwil made a weak effort to excuse his friends. "You'll have to forgive my friend," he stammered quickly, tripping over himself, "he woke up a little early. See, he woke to find that pickpocket Galar trying to get into his wallet, he—"

"Shut up, Tortwil, I—" Stanrac began, but stopped short when the door to Radagast's tower opened with a creak.

The Istrali Radagast the Brown, one of the Lesser Maiar sent by the Valar to assist the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, the Children of Illuvitar, stood cloaked in garments of white and brown. A wooden staff almost rapped against the top of the doorway. His beard draped across his chest. He looked at the lot of the six people standing in front of his tower. He looked at each one of them with uncaring eyes. "Whatever is happening out here?" he inquired, peering at the mound of heavy armor in the corner. Rabbits, squirrels, and other small animals crawled out of his tower and seemed to encircle around him with grace and beauty. Rays of light and hope appeared to shine down onto them from the entryway of his tower.

Hana shot Stanrac a sharp look.

"Nothin' out o' the ordinary, Radagast." Refr growled threateningly, also giving Stanrac a look that could have pierced clean through glass. "Jus' a lil' friendly reconciliation, ain't that right, Stan?"

Stanrac, being as stubborn as he was, glared at the blacksmith. "Of course, Radagast. Nothing out of the ordinary in the least. Can we help you with something?"

The Brown Wizard seemed to completely ignore the comment and stumbled back into his tower, closing the door behind him. The wizard was known quite well for his reputation of being easily angered and difficult to settle. Troubling with wizard from his tasks, or at least distracting or drawing his attention elsewhere, would end only with fire and brimstone.

"Just get the stupid armor, Stanrac," Slade said, picking up the gauntlets in one hand and slinging a boot across his shoulder with the other. "It's not like it's going to be the end of your reputation or anything. Here," he thrust the iron boot into Stanrac's arms, knocking the breath out of him, "you can start with that."

"Good man ye are, Slade," Refr said after Tortwil and Stanrac had gotten a majority of Gariath's armor and had left towards the workbench, "bossin' 'em aroun' like that. You gonna get a darn good life if you keep on like that, you will."

"Thanks, sir," Slade grinned, "I'll keep that in mind." He picked up the helmet and walked out with the gauntlets, also.

"Well, we'd bes' be gettin' ye settled, eh, Gar?" Refr heaved, picking up Gariath's breastplate and the last few ceremonial intricate items. "We can talk about them swords ye're wantin'."

Gariath nodded. "Thank you, Refr. I'll be right there." Refr left, and Hana and Gariath were left standing at the foot of Radagast's Tower.

"Thanks," Gariath told her, "but I do have a question."

"And what is that?"

"If that girl didn't bring me here, then who did?"  
>"Radagast, of course, silly," she told him with a degrading look. "Who else? He's saved your hide twice now, to my knowledge. You'd do good to thank him properly once. He's not necessarily as senile as he seems. He is, after all, of Maiar descendant. It's only natural he'd sense something abrupt."<p>

"I'll keep to that," Gariath reassured her, limping towards the entryway with his arm and shoulder bandaged, "thank you for the medicine."

"And bandages," she corrected.

"And bandages."

Gariath strode out of the foot of Radagast's Tower. He saw Frideric the Elder, the ruler of Ost Guruth, lounging at his familiar place at the ancient stone gates of Ost Guruth. He stood there waiting patiently. For what, Gariath could not see. It seemed almost as if he waited for something, or someone, greater than others were aware of. Gariath shrugged it off and went on his way to the workbench.

Refr and Slade were the only ones waiting for him when he got at the profession venders. Geniuses and Masters of all crafts crowded around in a circle, discussing their education and proficiency. The workbench – used for some woodworking crafts, or planning – stood at the back of the stone encasement, filled with the Expert Craft Venders. Refr and Slade leant against the wall on either side of it, a rather sour expression on their faces.

"What happened to your arm, Gariath?" Slade asked him very seriously.

"An accident in Haragmar," he said bluntly. He spotted his pile of armor underneath the workbench. He ignored the mistreating of his ceremonial metals.

"You don't flatten your lung over an "accident in Haragmar," Slade pushed, "what happened exactly?"

"It was an accident, Slade, that's all you need to know."

"For a Guardsman, you sure are rather sour, aren't you?"

"That's all I am, Slade. A Guardian. What should happen outside Ost Guruth are mine and my brother's affairs. Things outside these borders are not your business. My duty is to protect these crumbling walls and to be rest assured that the Lone-lands are free of the Enemy. You need not trouble yourself with the affairs outside your work, Slade. Do your job and do it well, as should we all. Do you understand?"

Slade glared at him. Refr spoke up.

"Slade here's got a point, boy," Refr growled, "when you'd be gettin' injured and the like—it's bes' te know what we're lookin' at, eh?"

"It was a Wight, if you have to know," Gariath growled, pushing the blacksmith out of the way and clearing the cluttered workbench. Slade rose his eyebrows.

"A Wight?" he laughed. "The Might Protector, felled by a Bile-spewer? You're kidding, right?"

"Why don't you try it sometime?" Gariath shot back hotly.

"Bes' be settlin' down, boys," Refr said, attempting to calm them, "now what'd you be needin' so importantly, Gar? And what're these plans you're havin'?"

"I'm leaving Ost Guruth for a while," he told them, "a vacation."

"What'd you need meh fer, then?" Refr snorted.

"You," he said, turning to Slade. "I need a sword. Something light and incredibly proficient. It's going to be a gift for someone, so please do the best you can. We're talking about a Hunter—one that's proficient with bow and blade. I'll need it by tomorrow."

"Do you have any idea what you're asking?"

Gariath crammed his unarmed hand into his pocket and took out a sparkling piece of pure gold.

The economy as far as Ered Luin to the Trollshaws had changed dramatically in the last months. Gold was as rare as it was valuable. Anything was purchasable with just the smallest sliver of gold. Gariath palmed the valuable coin, then flipped it towards Refr. "Do whatever's necessary," he said, "I want that blade, sheath and all, in my hands in twenty four hours. Do you understand?"

Slade's eyes turned as round as cans when he saw the large blacksmith waddle out of the crafting area. He turned to Gariath. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked excitedly.

Gariath rose his vision to meet his. "Precisely, how proficient are you with battle?"


	2. The Warden of Archet

**Chapter Two**

_**The Warden**_

The Warden Haldamphir's eerie shadow crept along the side of the mountain, crawling up along the sheer cliff that was below him. The setting sun slowly sank behind his form, and his eyes were set upon the Blackwold Camp of Ost Baranor, the rogue encampment near Chetwood. The ancient, deceased ruins that had seemed to fade out of all history, had become a popular camp for brigands. The unlawful men that dwelled in the plains below laughed and gambled at what little they had left to laugh and gamble about.

"And so I've found you," Haldamphir said grimly to himself. He shut his armored helm and drew the mighty spear from his back. His orange armor glimmered noticeably in the moonlight, and the Warden charged.

He uttered a might War-cry that sent the Blackwolds fleeing with terror. Haldamphir let the few who chose to escape live – but those foolish enough to oppose him, he would quickly dispose of. Quickly as he sped down the hill towards Ost Baranor, he flicked the butt of his spear upward with grace, slamming it into the jaw of one of the Blackwolds. Several more melee combatants engaged him. But, the warden had gone through military training unlike not of any before. His gambits and strategies staggered his untaught opponents. One after one he killed, he stabbed and lunged and sent whirling retaliations throughout the camp. Then the brigands called in their ranged.

Around eleven or twelve bowmen were positioned directly across from the warden, armed with longbows and arrows fit for slaughtering men. He noted that fear shone as clear in their eye as the sun on a bright day. He had struck terror in their hearts – he had the upper hand.

"This can be done by diplomacy," Haldamphir announced with a strong voice, "or it can be done with violence. You know who I am, and I know all that you've done. You're in no place to argue. The law has a higher hold on you then I do. If you strike me down, another two shall come. And if you should come to strike them down as well—then four more shall come in their place, and so forth. Put away your weapons. My name is Haldamphir, Warden of Archet and a Peace-keeper in Middle-earth. I will resolve unsettled matters however it is needed. What say you?"

"You're in no place to negotiate, man of Archet," one of the higher ranking Blackwolds scolded. "Our pact with Angmar certainly obtains its rite of law. Leave us be or die."

"You make a fool's choice," the warden growled.

With his circular shield, he jumped high into the air with profound unnaturalness, and landed with precision behind the Blackwolds, who yelped and he slashed at them with the sharp point of his spear. The archers were quickly disposed of, and the rest of the Blackwolds ran into the gloomy woods around them. Ost Baranor stood silent, and dark blood dripped from the tip of the warden's spear.

"And thus, justice is served," Haldamphir said lowly, as he walked away from the death-place and back towards Archet.

Justice had a distinct impact in the heart and mind of Haldamphir. What was justice to him? If all things were evil, he figured, was there really any good in the world? If sin and retribution had contributed so much to the world around them, what should make the world he lived in any different than those he sought to kill?

Eru and the Valar were the only Justice in the world, he told himself. Without them, there would be no world.

But, would that have been good, or bad?

At Town Hall, he stripped himself of his armor, and draped into one of the chairs in front of the mayor, wearing only his cotton shirt and pants. Mayor Gramae glanced at him from his desk.

"Another Blackwold raid?" he asked.

Haldamphir nodded silently.

"How many?"

"Seventeen," he said coarsely.

"It seems that the hand of Angmar is long indeed, if the Blackwolds have indeed claimed Ost Baranor."

"Ost Baranor would not have been difficult to claim," the warden growled, "I had no men stationed in Chetwood – the outlaws simply set camp to remain temporarily. No hand of Angmar shall breech the gates of Bree as long as I take breath and wield this spear."

"Brave words indeed for a warden," Mayor Gramae complemented. "Bree shall be safe, for now, I presume."

"I certainly do hope so, in the least."

The mayor shuffled through a few papers and scribbled something down.

"Hal," he said thoughtfully, "have you ever considered being stationed on the field?"

"The application for submission and transportation to the fields of Isen is full," Haldamphir grumbled, "I've submitted myself for approval multiple times."

"I shouldn't see why," said Mayor Gramae, reaching for his glasses and reading over an official looking document. "To my knowledge, you qualify for a high ranking role in the assault against the Ettenmoors."

"Our stronghold in Lugazag shan't hold for long," Haldamphir trailed offhandedly. "Gramsfoot won't be breeched from there."

"Oh? And why is that?" the mayor asked, suddenly intrigued.

"I know the War-captain," he said, "Nemo. She's bright and smart—but even she knows that those ruins aren't fit for the offense. They've better chances fishing for sea lions in Moria."

"Try to keep on the bright side of things, Hal," the mayor cheered, "things in the Ettenmoors fare well, and Bree is safe at the moment. Blackwolds shan't be a great threat, I think."

"The Blackwolds should be the least of anyone's concerns," Haldamphir chuckled, "but I hear that the White Hand has Tarkríps and breeds of unkindly creatures marching. Which way we cannot say, but they march, growing in numbers daily. They say that trolls and Olliphaunts travel at their disposal. Now what would be the goal in raising such an army?"

"I know not, but don't be troubled with yourself about toils that are not yet even yours. Orcs shall _not _claim Bree. We have you, Hal, and the Guards and the Free Peoples. The Shire and Ered Luin and even the residents of Celondim and Rivindell are with us, even if they may not be as quick to come to our aid as the rest. We have allies, in any case. The North-downs, Evendim, and Trestlebridge shall be our refuge, if the outer bounds of Bree shall falter. We have Annundír and Fornost who are willing to prepare us tents and resting places. If Orc and the Enemy wish to have off our Race, then they are wrong. Do not allow your fear to hold your best interest."

"I do not know fear," Haldamphir snapped back. "It is naught but an illusion – a skillful illustration artistically drawn by man. A sleight of hand—smoke and mirrors. Fear is never what it seems to be. Do not insult me, Gramae."

The Mayor nodded. "I understand, Haldamphir. Now get yourself rested and speak to Butterbur. The Prancing Pony shall hold you as its guest tonight. Enjoy yourself and drink heavily to good cheer.

"Who makes a man what he is?" hissed Strider. "It is not what the man himself does, but what weighs at his heart. You're a good man Haldamphir, and a strong one at that. I'd rejoice to see another man of your stature in my day."

Haldamphir chuckled and drained his tankard. He and Strider, his mysterious friend, had been speaking of the Battles at the Ettenmoors whence the warden had stridden inside the Inn. Strider had won Haldamphir's trust and friendship completely for the last few months. Indeed there was much that Haldamphir did not know about the cloaked Ranger, but he was right and good at the heart. Or at least that was how he saw it.

"The armies of Isen double in number daily, Strider," Haldamphir sighed, as Butterbur (the keeper of the Inn) filled his mug again with his finest ale. "The Blackwolds don't worry me as much as the Orcs and Trolls that march with purpose to the East."

"There are things more horrible for you yet to behold, my friend, if you go to war."

Again, Haldamphir drained his tankard. He had thick blood, and he was thick with muscles—his liquor was slow to stain. Again the innkeeper filled his keg.

"Many a mystery have I seen in my day," said Strider thoughtfully, "and you among them. But get some rest, Hal," he patted him on the back, "for tomorrow may hold many more mysteries yet."

Haldamphir sighed, drained his tankard for third time and bid his friend a good night. He threw Butterbur a few hearty coins for his room, and he made his way to a small, cozy room fit with a fireplace.

Before long, his dreams were filled heavy with that of War-trolls and Uruk-hai, assaulting them from Carn Dum, overriding Evendim and all of the North-downs, and obliterating the Race of Man to extinction.

_He stared at the massive humanoid-like beast. It arms and legs were like the trunks of trees and its skin as rough as leather. Two frantic eyes were on either side of its giant head, staring down at him. It was garbed in heavy, iron armor and had a club the size of a horse. Its whole form rose up well over fifteen feet. And Haldamphir felt like he shrunk back under the immensity of the monster._

_ The Troll swung its club downward for a strike, but it moved slowly. Haldamphir rolled to his left and quickly threw his thick, sharp spear into the unarmored leg of the thing. He ducked to avoid a swing form the giant oaken club, and yanked his spear out of the beast's leg. Hot, sizzling blood spilt onto the ground. He grinned and half-glanced at the barbs he had put on the end of the spear. So they had paid off after all. The troll howled in rage and blindly swerved its weapon. Using an Unerring Strike, he ran and thrust his spear out of his hand expertly, and the projectile pierced through the armor, and struck the beast in the chest. Using a Careful Step, the Troll could not spot him. But the spear protruded from the beast's breast, and Haldamphir needed to retrieve his only offensive weapon. Using Defiance, he cried a mighty war-cry that startled the troll, the troll reeled backwards and Haldamphir leapt up and jerked the spear out of its chest. The trolls roared in defeat and collapsed at Haldamphir's feet in a heap._

_ But as the warden' s eyes caught the distant army—he saw that there was going to be more to war with then a simple troll._

_ The Witch-king of Angmar was personally leading a full-fledged assault against the entire realm of Man. And the North-downs was going to be the first to go._


	3. The Champions of Isen

The set of blades clashed and sparks flew overhead. The blunt sides of the two swords pressed against each other, locked in a duel.

A man and a woman recoiled and drew their blades back, grinning. The man lunged forward, but his attack was easily parried to the side—as an aggravating insect. The woman side stepped, spun around and took a graceful swing. In a frantic haste, the man flicked his blade upward and blocked the oncoming blow. They both laughed.

The man dared a Savage Strike.

The woman dodged it. She flew at him, eyes ablaze and hair whipping behind her.

He blocked it with ease..

The fight lasted for an hour at least. Each opposing side was unable to achieve the upper hand. Finally, as a feeble last effort, the girl rose her sword—feeling like leaden stone in her tired grip—and swung. The man was too slow.

The pointed the tip of her blade under his chin. The man looked startled; then she lowered her sword and he raised his hands in mock defeat.

"You win, Gwen." He mopped at the sweat dripping from his brow.

"Best two out of three?"

"I'd think we've tired ourselves enough for one day. Let us return home."

"Of course."

The man Skyrvr and Gwenyfier the woman, stalked the gravel road the twisted and groveled. Thorin's Hall was ahead, as soon as they were to reach Noglond, the Stable-master would surely lend them horses. They would arrive tonight, in the least. The sun was beginning to set, and the stony background of Ered Luin glowed with a certain age-old beauty. Set stones had been placed diligently by the dwarves to make the walls of Gondamon, and in interior had been left untouched and had been allowed to age with the years unending.

No matter how may times Skyrvr and Gwenyfier laid their eyes upon the Dwarf antiquity, it always took their breath away.

Mathi stood the greet them at the top of an ancient-looking staircase the was in the middle of the stronghold.

"Middle-earth grows pleasant indeed!" the hearty dwarf exclaimed, embracing them both as a long forgotten friend. "For Champions we now have plenty!"

"We journey to Thorin's Hall," Gwenyfier explained. The Dwarf listened intently with glistening eyes. "Haste is a matter of importance. Do you have any horses to spare?"

"Aye, Sigdan I'm sure could spare you two. What, if I may dare to ask, allows for such haste?"

"A relic long lost has been unveiled," Skyrvr said lowly, glancing at Gwenyfier, "and those of which know of its existence are few. It would be best if the matter were to remain untouched and silent."

Mathi's eyes grew wide. "Alas! the First Age renews itself yet again! And not for the last, I wager. Sigdan the Stable-master shall lend you the horses you desire. He is in the stables now, I am sure."

"We thank you, friend," Gwenyfier said with a nod and went with Skyrvr down towards the stables.

"Perhaps you had said too much," Gwenyfier hissed as they walked side to side towards the stables.

"Only as much as haste should allow," Skyrvr grinned, "now hurry. The Longbeards dread to wait, I wager."

"I'm sure."

Before Gwenyfier's hasty friend could smartly respond, the sound of a bellowing war-horn sounded above Gondamon. Gwenyfier and Skyrvr immediately drew their weapons by pure instinct. They each dualwielded a shining blade in each hand. In their friendly spar, they chivalrously fought with a single sword, though they always brandished a second as safety had it. They each held one in their Main-hand and another in their Off-hand. The man was left-handed and the woman right. Mathi's loud voice bellowed over the terrified citizens below.

"Gondamon is being laid siege upon!" he exclaimed. "Get everyone indoors! Skyrvr, Gwenyfier! Won't you aid us in your artisan swordsmanship? The Blue-crag goblins shall not be very relenting, I'm sure."

"They are goblins, then?" Skyrvr shouted back, calling upon his hidden reserves of Fervor. Gwenyfier called on Ardor and a blaze shown in each of their eyes. The bloodshed of the wicked were by far amongst their gladdest desires. Their mighty zeal for justice gleamed clearly in their posture.

"Goblins, Dourhands, Orcs, and amongst other foul things of which there is no name," he told them, "we surely cannot fend them off ourselves. Surely you will aid us?"

"Gladly we shall!" Gwenyfier shouted. Then she turned to her friend. "Give me the Emblem."

Skyrvr handed her a wrapped package roughly the size of a large fist. It was heavy padded with clothes. "Get everyone inside. Instinct tells me that this Siege is not one of pure cold-bloodedness. They're aware of what we have. Now hurry! get the citizens indoors. We'll defend these walls ourselves, dead-on."

"What of the Guards?"

"Send them away as well. Tell them to secure the commoners, if worse comes to worst. The enemy shall not come into these walls."

"And if Ignithor and his beast is amongst them?"

"Then we shall deal with them accordingly."

"Very well, hide it efficiently. Should we lose it; I should haunt you in your afterlife, wherever it should be."

Gwenyfier gave an unforthcoming chuckle and swiftly ran off, her feet bound only by leather straps. The Elf ran diligently and ever so graceful. Skyrvr turned around and ran, sheathing his blades for the sake of safety.

"You there! Guard!"

A large, blunt man wearing rather dirty, unappetizing armor. Skyrvr scanned the man carefully, comparing his own heavy armor to his. As Skyrvr's blue metallic coat of arms sparkled in the setting sun, this man's armor was almost purely tainted brown with rust. He turned around from his post of the eastern gate and glanced uncaringly at Skyrvr. "Oi? An' who 're ye?"

"Captain-General Champion Skyrvr of the Free Peoples, Protector of the Threshold in Isen and guardsmen of the North-downs, Bree-land, Ered Luin, and Celondim at your service. Have you any such title?"

The little dwarf recoiled at the amazing stature of the man before him. He squinted. "Aye, ye may be a defender o' Ered Luin', but ye ther' are a Man, if meh eyes o' old don' deceive meh."

"Yes, Master Dwarf. And Bilbo was a Hobbit I'm sure, but your race stood by him, did they?"

The Dwarf coughed. "Might ye be watin' meh time, masteh? If ye ain' gonna be helpin', ye bes' be goin'. 'Dis is no figh' for a Man."

"Allow me to put this bluntly," Skyrvr smiled almost eerily. "My friend and I are more then capable of warding off this fleet of troops. Call your men to protect the threshold of peasents in Gondamon. If the worse shall happen, then you shall defend them with your lives. That, Master Dwarf, is a direct order from Eru himself."

A little extravagant, perhaps, mentioning the God himself, but it seemed to break the attention of the Dwarf. With a grunt he waddled off bellowing orders to his men to retreat from their positions. Puzzled, they obeyed. Skyrvr himself waited at the entrance of the stairway. Gwenyfier descended and met him there.

"It's hidden?"

She nodded.

"And where is Mathi?"

"He was too stubborn, Skyrvr. He's firmly rooted at the entryway of the basement. He says that the Enemy should have to plow through him first, if not then his own people."

"That old ass," Skyrvr chuckled. "Too hotheaded for his own good, perhaps. Now, we await for the oncoming siege."

At that moment, as if by pure chance, or perhaps by luck or some greater divine force, a poison dipped arrow flew feebly through the air, missing Skyrvr's nose by only a few inches. The duo drew their swords accordingly, and saw the first wave of troops.

Three spear-wielding goblins and two keg-master Dourhands. Skyrvr almost had to drop his weapons and clamp his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud. Was this truly the uttermost force that Angmar could conjure? Idiocy, he told himself. Almost suicide, it seemed.

Gwenyfier efficiently waged a Champion's Challenge and drew their attention to herself with taunts and spiteful sayings. Skyrvr roared and swung his blades to create almost a Blade-wall. The goblins fell dead at their feet. The keg-masters roared as a large explosion was thrown their way. As the grenade hit the ground, Skyrvr braced himself and lowered the visor of his dark blue ceremonial helm. He braced himself, as did Gwenyfier. They lunged forward and quite easily disposed of the duo of Dourhands. They had forged an alliance together, which much was apparent. And the reason, it seemed, was to collect the Emblem of Mairon. But that they would not get, as long as the Captain-General Champions drew breath that was.

Enemies and evildoers poured into Gondamon from all sides. At the moment seeming only to be Blue-crag Goblins and the Dourhands. But as hours passed, and Skyrvr and Gwenyfier began to tire, the troops changed race, it seemed.

As they thought they had earned rest at last, at least for a moment, the floor beneath them began to vibrate. They were thrown off balance, and a mighty roar sounded overhead. A rather large, infuriated Troll Wound-taker stood at the Western Entryway of Gondamon. His spiked club raised high, there were Death-mongers surrounding him, using their dark necromancy and summoning bound spirits and demons. The Champion's moral decreased considerably.

"Your troops are mine!" the Wound-taker roared in an inhuman tone. It was almost as if two voices. A feral snarl positioned in the Common-tongue and a pitch too low to comprehend. A shadowy aura came over it. It was not a Troll found in the mountains. It was a dark, inbred Troll possessed by Saruman and brainwashed to love the feeling of bloodshed. Such a mighty creature should not be subjected to such torment, Skyrvr groaned in the spirit.

A small fleet of ghosts surrounded Skyrvr and Gwenyfier, their spears pointed inward towards them. Bound unwilling soldiers of the Eorlingas, it seemed. Their armor and decorated cloaks said it so. The Death-mongers conjured them and possessed them against their will. They also seemed to be restraining the raging troll with unseen bonds. A hologram of a short Dwarf appeared. He was garbed in black and crimson armor, spiked and jagged with blood. Its shoulders were jagged and unsymmetrical. His helm was white and a long beard sprouted to the ground. A large ax was clasped firmly in his hands. Skyrvr snarled.

"Skorgrím," Skyrvr growled menacingly. Gwenyfier curiously remained silent.

_"Skyrvr," _Skorgrím bowed. _"As you may have noticed. The Wound-taker beast which you see before you is not a natural troll."_

"Indeed, I see," he glanced again at the armored monster. "What do you call it?"  
><em>"It has no name, but it is in fact a Troll of Moria. This beast is masterful elite in its craft."<em>

"And what may that be?"

_"Destruction," _Skorgrím retorted. _"You know what we come here for. And you know that we shall have it. Please make this easy; death of the innocent is not so freely dwelt upon."  
><em>Skyrvr almost chuckled, but restrained himself. "The Emblem of Mairon is not with us, indeed Melkor should have it."

_"Melkor's fall is natural knowledge, Skyrvr. Do not take me for a fool. For you found such a relic in the depths of Keheledul. How you came upon it I do not know. But all that matters is that you have. It is of no use to you. Please, allow me to take it from your hands."  
><em>"The Emblem of Mairon belonged to Mairon," Gwenyfier intervened.

_ "Mairon died whence Sauron died, fool!" _Skorgrím stomped his foot in anger. _"They are the same, Elf-maid. I have not come here to argue who may be who. I come for the object itself."_

"You shall not have it," Skyrvr grinned.

From a gentle cue of his hand, he and Gwenyfier threw aside their swords and as swift as a mockingbird, slung their bows from their back and pulled the strings faster than the eye could see. Their arrows were spent on the Death-mongers and the hologram of Skorgrím disappeared, along with the free Rohhirim Soldiers. But, the bonds of the angered Troll were unbound and it swung its large spiked club into the earth before them. They leapt out of the way, Gwenyfier being faster than the Man. They rained hell with their arrows upon the Troll, but they stuck in its scaly skin and stood fast there. The Troll was unbothered and swept the club across the ground, similar to Skyrvr's Blade-wall.

Skyrvr and Gwenyfier once again were forced to leap back, this time towards the stairway. The Troll was going to be difficult to deal with. Gwenyfier roared a battle-cry and bounded towards the Troll, picking up her blades and tossing her bow aside. She swept them across its leg, and it tore off flesh and showed white bone. The beast roared loudly in pain! It's leg gave out, but it swung its club lazily, and Gwenyfier—being unwarned—was hit fully and was sent reeling into a stone wall. She cried out and then was silent.

"Gwenyfier!" he shouted after her. The Troll knelt to both knees. In his fury, Skyrvr picked his weapons from the ground and avoided another hasty swing from the Troll's massive weapon. He stabbed the monstrous fiend in the side with one blade and took a wide swipe at its chest with another. He swung himself out of the beasts' blind rage and retreated behind it. He leapt up, and held firmly on its neck. He retrieved footing on its iron shoulder pads, and used both his blades to gorge both eyes of the Troll. It screamed horribly in agony.

"You anger me, Champion! Slaughter me and be done with it now! Do it now!"

Without hesitation, Skyrvr shouted "I am Justice!" and beheaded the Armored Moria-Troll. It stopped its horrible squeal, and dropped to the ground with a loud thud. Its body twitched involuntarily and its head lie near the side of the stairway. Mathi came running down the stairs, as fast as a Dwarf could run, and his eyes widened when he saw the slayed troll and Death-mongers littering the battlefield. Dourhands and Blue-crag Goblins were slain nearer the entries. Then his eyes fell upon Gwenyfier.

Skyrvr ignored his Dwarf-friend and ran over to Gwenyfier. He scraped off the stones the littered the floor around her, and examined her motionless figure. He felt for a pulse near her neck, but felt nothing.

Tears began to swell up in his eyes. Then sadness turned to anger. _Skorgrím…_

He put his head against her check to find a heart beat.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Immediately, hope was abundant in his mind. He held her and shouted her name.

Then she stirred. "…Skyrvr?"

He laughed and helped her to her feet. She dusted herself off and Mathi came to congratulate them.

"The peoples of Gondamon thank you, friend Man and Elf. You are forever welcome in our city. Take these horses as our token of appreciation. For you've fought long and hard with renown. We are forever in your debt."

"The walls have crumbled, certainly," Skyrvr apologized.

"Aye, but I'd much rather repair then rebuild. Now, where is that Sigdan…?"


End file.
